


Intel

by devotchka



Category: Mafia (Video Games)
Genre: Casual Sex, Denial of Feelings, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:53:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24812623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devotchka/pseuds/devotchka
Summary: "What could you possibly need that isn't drugs or drama?""You, obviously."
Relationships: Lincoln Clay/John Donovan
Comments: 1
Kudos: 19





	Intel

There are never any other cars at the Blue Gulf Motel. Lincoln noticed a while back that almost every time he comes here the parking lot is empty, just Donovan’s car and his own. It's probably why he picked the place to begin with. Meet him at the motel, Donovan had requested again. He found some more intel whenever Lincoln wasn’t too busy. So, he’s walking up the steps to his room, letting himself into the unlocked front door, at one in the morning.

Donovan’s room is a place of organized chaos. To the outsider looking in it could come across frightening in its scattered appearance, the files on every surface and information on every inch of wall, packs of cigarettes seemingly everywhere, belongings haphazard, but Donovan is methodical. He knows where everything belongs. Sometimes it's easy to forget the man is an Ivy League scholar, a linguist, a renowned tactician.

He's sitting at the desk in the back room, glancing between open folders, pen in hand as he takes notes on his current work. There's no music playing, no noise from the television. Nothing to distract him from this highly illegal job he’d so willingly taken up on nothing but Lincoln’s request.

“You said you had some intel for me?” Lincoln asks, announcing his presence.

“I do.” Donovan replies, setting his work aside. He looks amused, which should have been the first red flag, but Lincoln chooses to wait, anyway. “The intel is that I am bored and sexually repressed.”

Lincoln frowns. He's sure his face gives it all away – the exhaustion that comes from getting your hands dirty every day and night, the fact that this is not the intel he had in mind when he made his way over to Delray Hollow in the middle of the night. “Really, John? Pouring over those radios isn’t enough for you?” he sarcastically replies. “You do know I’m kind of in the middle of a war right now, right?”

“Well, that’s why I specifically said _if you aren’t busy_. You haven't come to see me in..." He glances at the clock. "thirty eight hours. I have needs."

"What could you possibly need that isn't drugs or drama?"

"You, obviously." John replies, and he does it without missing a beat.

The sudden affection throws him for a loop, but he has to admit that he likes this. He likes the way John looks at him now. He likes the way he so comfortably approaches him, like this is wholly routine already, like he knows he looks and feels and smells so fucking good. 

Like he knows Lincoln will battle his fear of closeness and inevitably lose just because it is him asking for it.

John watches him cross the rest of the distance between them and firmly commit to not just touching him but kissing him. This isn't the first time they've touched by far -- in fact, John's been touchier and touchier with time, handling the existential crisis of Lincoln's near death with that affirmation, and it's different without that formerly pure, platonic nature of his. Hands just feel heavier when their touch is intimate; and as soon as it starts it really starts, leaving Lincoln proud but overwhelmed by it, flustered by the solid feel of him.

There are many things John is impartial about, but he touches like he aches without it, his hands gripping the lapels of his jacket and tugging him down towards his level, a silent plea to fuck him into the mattress. It doesn't last long before John's guiding him backwards, toward the half-made bed in the front room, and the backs of Lincoln's legs bump into it until he's sitting down with John straddling his lap.

He likes that there's no need for romance and deep conversation, no need to talk sweet to John. Touching is enough for both of them. The mutual understanding is enough.

"Get undressed." he says, and John just obeys.

Lincoln did make the educated guess that he might need lube, and now he's feeling vindicated about it, tearing the cap off the bottle as he guides John down and under him. He impatiently dumps it all over his hand.

John spreads his legs willingly, hissing under his breath as Lincoln presses a finger into him and immediately begins to coax it in and out. Just a few thrusts in and he adds a second.

John is the first man Lincoln has ever done this with, and he remembers his initial reaction to putting his fingers in him like this. Of course he'd noticed the overt things -- the warm, tight, heat -- but pressing his fingers into it instead of his cock was just a sensation. It felt clinical, even, until he paid attention to the reaction it caused; that part is always noteworthy -- the way his chest rises and falls a bit harder, and his skin flushes, and, sometimes, Lincoln can draw out the faintest of noises just from this.

Unfortunately, that requires patience, and John doesn't have much. Those fingers spreading him open quickly go from amazing to not enough. It's usually at his insistence ("I'm ready _now_.") that they stop.

Lincoln tries to be considerate even when he thinks John would prefer that he didn't. That especially goes for this point, when he's freeing his cock and John's already grinding into it.

He tries to be gentle, kissing him softly, but it always winds up filthy. He tries to enter him slowly. John rolls his hips just so, and Lincoln can't help the way he presses in deeper, feeling like he barely fits.

It doesn't take long once he really lets go. He falls into a pattern of just taking, and it's haphazardly right enough to leave John tense, to force the occasional whimper out of his clenching body.

Those romantic pretenses just tend to fall through. It doesn’t feel like a loss; not when John responds so well to roughness, to his body rocking back into the mattress with force. Lincoln simply pins his hips down and treats him like a toy. 

He thinks there must be a part of John that’s only happy when he’s being used most effectively, and he can’t say that he doesn’t understand. 

"Right there." John gasps, and so Lincoln keeps doing what he's doing, moves faster, and John is grabbing at his back, short nails digging into his shoulder blades. He buries his face in the curve of Lincoln's neck when he comes, muffling the sounds he makes, and Lincoln takes his time despite how spent he is.

John is probably the only thing in his life that feels uncomplicated. Making him happy is one of few things that doesn’t feel insurmountable: nicotine will do it, or their shared sense of humor, or whatever sexual dynamic they’re developing these days.

He knows, for once, that he is doing something natural yet right. Mostly because, as they both lay panting and exhausted in bed, John is the first to offer a worn out, "You are so good at that."

"I think you're just really easy." Lincoln teases, and John laughs.


End file.
